The Holly and the 221B
by Wordwielder
Summary: My 2019 December Calendar collection!
1. Fatal Instruments

_**Happy holidays everyone! So excited to be doing the Challenge once again! **_

**1\. From That SassyCaptain: Shocking Murder! Holmes has never seen a case where the fatal instrument was a...**

"Blunt force trauma?" Holmes said, with little enthusiasm. "Watson, didn't we do one of those last week?"

"Two weeks ago," I said. "Nevertheless, you should let the man say the rest, Holmes."

Holmes slunk deeper into his chair, which he was half falling out of and clearly uninterested in getting back in, as he had been in his strange position for nearly two hours before Lestrade had arrived. "Very well."

"As I was saying," Lestrade said. "The victim was found in his kitchen. He was last seen by his wife in the very early morning, leaving bed, and at that time he said he was in search of sustenance. The kitchen is somewhat separated from the main house, as one needs to ascend a small staircase to reach it, but any disturbance would've been heard by the servants, who live nearby. The kitchen was locked- both from the inside and the out- and the head housekeeper swears none of her girls went past her room into the kitchen from that door."

"So he locked the kitchen after himself?" I asked. "A bit odd, isn't it?"

"Odder still was that there wasn't a single thing out of place in the kitchen," Lestrade said. "No footprints, blood, or even a hair. And yet the victim's skull was partially crushed, and he was covered in bright red welts in the shape of an odd club."

"Hm," Holmes said in a way that seemed to me that he was thinking, despite feigned disinterest. "Nothing missing at all?"

"Well, one thing," Lestrade said, with a strange look on his face. "But we're not sure it's related."

"What was it, pray tell?"

"The cook's favorite spatula."

Holmes sat up. "I should like to see the body at once. How, I don't know, but I'm quite certain the missing spatula will match the victim's wounds."


	2. Blizzard

**From cjnwriter: The blizzard left them stranded for days.**

"The snow began slowly, like sugar sprinkled onto a pastry. It became a dusting quietly, then a blanket, and then, suddenly, forcefully, a blizzard. Mothers worried they didn't have enough food. Fathers anxiously considered the number of logs for the fire. Even children could sense the urgency, and didn't plead to leave their homes to play, content instead to join their parents in peering out of the window as the streets were buried and all landmarks eroded.

"Surely, the snow would stop, they reasoned. But it didn't, and the windows were buried, so now you couldn't look out of them. The houses became cold and dark, and families huddled close and quietly together. The longer it went on, the less was said, and the more the atmosphere of fear draped over them. Their supplies dwindled, and all they could do is say their prayers and hide their terror."

"They's gonna start to eat each other," Tommy piped up. "I bet they do."

"Hush, Tommy," Wiggins said. "The doc's not done."

Watson smiled. "I'm afraid it's not that kind of story, Tommy."

"Would that it were," Holmes muttered.

Watson rolled his eyes. "No, lads, it's a Christmas tale, as I said. Ahem. So they leaned in close and prayed the snow would end. In one house at the end of the lane, a father awoke to the sounds of boots on the roof."

"It's Santa!" burst out a young Irregular, Johnny.

Watson smiled. "The father crept to window and tried to see what was happening, but they were still too frosted over. Suddenly, a package slid out of the chimney. He ran to it to see coal, candles, matches, food, and two small trains of tin for his boys, and he knew the family would survive the storm. The end."

"I really thought they'd be cannibals," Tommy said, a bit disappointed.

Watson chuckled, and then felt a prickle of discomfort, remembering the nights where he and his brother crowded into their parents' bed with the bulldogs to preserve heat. It had not been Santa who aided them-rather, a burly, silent neighborhood who trekked to every house within walking distance with supplies. But that made a lesser story.


	3. dance

**3\. From V Tsuion: Dancing. **

It was a rare day that Holmes accepted the many social invitations fielded his way, especially during the holiday season. He found such occasions tiresome and predictable, and remained unimpressed by any display of wealth or power meant to awe him. Nevertheless, Mycroft somehow bullied or persuaded him into attending one such state ball in the early years of my marriage, somehow vaguely connected to an affair with a French cat, a royal gem, and smuggling, but that's a tale for another day. Holmes quite rudely informed Mycroft he had invited my wife and I, and after a great deal of fussing to find appropriate evening wear, we had accepted.

The evening went swimmingly. Mary and I mostly stuck together, intimidated by the greats of society, but a number of them recognized my connection to Holmes and mentioned a liking for my stories. Holmes, for his part, made a number of inappropriately timed and entirely correct deductions, seemingly taking pleasure from offending the highest members of Parliament.

Mary and I danced. She had been trained in boarding school in most styles of ballroom, and was graceful to see. I was less so, but found joy in being close to my beloved.

"Does Mr. Holmes dance?" she inquired as we waltzed. I laughed. "I've never seen him do so, but Holmes has many talents I've never seen. Let's ask him." I caught his eye and gestured him over.

"Yes, Watson?" Holmes said.

"Satisfy our curiosity. Do you dance?"

"If the question is _can _I dance, then certainly. I was taught as a young man and have found it very useful in casework. The upper crust will trust anyone who can appear classically trained. Do I enjoy it?" He smiled. "I must confess I do."

"Then by all means," I said, handing him Mary's hand. They twirled off, and I was struck by the way they moved together and their collective elegance. Indeed, Holmes could dance.


	4. Protective

**4\. From PowerOfPens: Lestrade is protective of his colleagues.**

"Ach, put on a coat," Lestrade scolded as Hopkins passed by. "It's like to start to snow."

"Oh, calm, Mother Hen," Hopkins laughed. "It's barely cold enough to get a chill."

"When you get sick, I'm not taking over your cases," Lestrade threatened; Hopkins left and kept out the door.

And yet, when Hopkins caught a chill and was huddled in bed, he received a visit from Lestrade with soup, and when he returned to work there wasn't the first case on his desk.

**(sorry this is short- got stuck and behind!)**


	5. caroling

**From Book Girl Fan: Caroling. **

"What are we singing now?" Hopkins asked, adjusting his hat. His nose was bright red.

"Let's go for 'We Three Kings.'"

"Personally, I feel we're a bit pitchy," Gregson said.

"Maybe _you're _pitchy," Lestrade grumbled. He was cold, hungry, and cranky. Gregson had stepped on his foot twice already as they shuffled through the snow.

"Stop fussing," Mrs. Hudson said. "No one cares if we're pitchy. Heavens, do you think anyone answers for caroling expecting talent? Just cheer, my boys."

"Well-said," Watson said, wrapping an arm around Mrs. Hudson. "Onward."

Holmes, graciously said, nothing. He had been fiercely admonished to stay quiet if he couldn't be cheery.


	6. fool's gold

**From SirensBane: Not all that glitters is gold.**

It was unfortunate, that Watson had chosen to take a walk at this particular time this evening, and that Mrs. Hudson was at Mrs. Turner's, when the intruder decided to come to threaten Holmes off a case. Certainly Holmes could physically subdue this shaking leaf of a man, but there was the matter of the pistol in his trembling hand, and having been shot before, Holmes preferred to avoid it.

"Are you being paid, sir?" Holmes asked.

"What's it to you?" the youth barked.

"Merely that I'm sure it was a pittance," Holmes replied. "Certainly, I could find you more in this very apartment."

The man's arm lowered just so.

"If I may," Holmes said, rising from his chair. "I'll get you twice your fee, you can say you've done what you must, and be on your way with little more conflict."

"Be quick about it," the man said.

Holmes went into his lab table's drawer and held up a sparkling nugget. "Here. This gold was given to me in gratitude from a client. Take it and be well."

The man inched forward, snatched the chunk and shoved it into his pocket. In a flash, he was sprinting down the stairs.

When Watson returned, Holmes was smoking.

"To return to such poisonous air after such a lovely walk in the fresh air," Watson complained. "Have you been in your chair all this time?"

Holmes smiled. "I briefly rose. Also, I must apologize, my dear Watson, for I have had to trade the fool's gold Murray sent us from Kazakhstan for a valuable clue."

Watson shrugged. "Alas, it's just a trinket. It's worth nothing at all."

**Thanks to those who pointed out the glitch in formatting on the last chapter!**


	7. Stamford

**From W.Y. T****raveller: Stamford asks for help. **

Holmes and I were on one of our usual jaunts in the park on a damp afternoon. It was not raining, but the sky refused to clear, drizzling in intermittent, half-hearted spurts. My leg was beginning to ache, and without having to say as much aloud to Holmes, he changed our path toward 221B.

Despite the weather, I was in a peaceful mood, and Holmes seemed content as well, fresh off a successful case and not yet fallen into the trap of lethargic depression following the high, where he was like as not to fall silent for days or mourn aloud in a poetic, eloquent elegy the pointlessness of existence without work. The longer our association went on, the more prepared I was for his moods, and the more likely to subvert them entirely, but at times, they were inevitable. One did wonder if there'd ever be another mind such as his.

As we approached home, a frantic voice cried, "My God, the very man I wanted to see!" and there was our old acquaintance Stamford. I had not seen him even in passing in a number of years, and indeed, he looked worse for the wear, though it would not take Holmes' intellect to see that he was in great distress. His dress was fine in quality, but in a state of disorder that suggested he had dressed with little attention to his appearance. His hair was tufted as if he'd pulled at it, and his face was flushed and earnest. He seized my hand with fervor.

"What's gotten into you, old boy?" I asked. "Why do you require a detective? Have you been robbed or swindled?"

Holmes smiled. "You've made a wrong deduction, Watson. Stamford is here to see you. If I may venture a guess, in matters of the heart?"

"Yes, exactly!" Stamford cried.

"And in this matter, my dear Watson, you are far more the expert than I," Holmes chuckled. I flushed.

"He's right," Stamford said. "Even at Bart's, you had such a confidence with the ladies that I envied. Please! I have found _her, _and I simply must have her heart."

"Continue on, Holmes," I said. "I will join you to sup in an hour. Until then, Stamford, tell me of your her, and we shall hatch a plan to win her affections."


	8. Seeds

**8\. From WinterWinks: Seeds.**

I was walking myself back to my lodgings on Montague Street, reflecting with frustration on the efforts of Scotland Yard to make themselves useful in conducting interviews. Certainly some of the difficulty was due to their own faults, but some was environmental; the men of the streets had good reason to be weary of men in uniform, like as not to get arrested themselves with a foolish word. I could certainly don a disguise and listen out myself, but the work would be faster with a network of trusted colleagues. Perhaps I could train some workers in pubs and the docks, but they too would be limited by location. It would be a long endeavor, though I was sure one that would pay off in a short time.

My eyes were then caught by a small petty crime occurring at my knee. A youth, maybe eleven, was gesticulating wildly with a small fruit cart vendor, whose red face and pitchy yell were clear enough indicator without any detection abilities that the youth was driving him to irritation. The boy, lanky and dirty, had an easy smile and spark in his eyes that instantly made me suspicious. I pivoted and looked behind the cart to see a smaller child, perhaps seven, filling a cart stealthily with apples. I considered whether to intervene, but the cart owner's clothing, neat polished shoes, and build convinced me he could stand the loss of a bag of apples, while the gauntness and grime of the minute thieves convinced me they needed some sustenance, and I could look the other way.

The youth in front caught the eye of the younger child, who had crawled into a nearby alley and signaled a with small finger tap his work was complete.

"Very well, I still say it's a steal, wot you're askin'," the youth said. "But good day to ya." He strolled off, casually, towards the alley.

I was intrigued. This was not remotely a new con for thieves who worked in pairs. Any seasoned vendor ought to have caught on, but yet, this man had not, _still. _Perhaps this was the solution to my conundrum.

I slipped into the alley, where the two youth were munching ravenously on apples. They froze when they saw me, and the elder stood in front of the younger and asked with great bravado, "Wot ya want, then?"

I held up my hands. "Merely to compliment your cleverness."

The youth smiled. "No offense, but grown-ups never notice a kid hanging round the street."

"I imagine you hear and see a great deal."

"Bet," the younger piped up. The older cast him a wary glance.

"Wot's that to ya?"

"I have been searching for a few good men to be my eyes and ears on the street. I'll pay generously, if you could create such a force for me."

"A shilling a day," the youth insisted.

"Very well." His eyebrows shot up; clearly, he thought I'd negotiate for less.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," I said, holding out my hand for the youth to take, which he did gingerly.

"Wiggins," the youth said. "This here's my brother, Tommy."

"And could you find me others?"

Wiggins snorted. "Gimme a day, I'll have ten for you."

"Excellent. Come round 21 Montague Street when you do. The address may change soon, I hope."

I left the alley smiling, with a quick glance back at the oblivious fruit vendor. The seeds had been planted for a successful informant network, albeit in a most irregular fashion.


	9. Missing Necklace

**9\. From mrspencil: a scientist, a dove, and a missing necklace. **

Holmes often called on me at extremely inconvenient and unfortunate times, by sheer coincidence. One such day, approaching the Yule, I had kissed my wife off as she traveled to go visit a school friend who had just had a child, and discovered shortly after she left that the opal pendant necklace I had spent perhaps more than was wise on had vanished from its hiding place. I had little left to budget to replace it, and frankly, had no clue if it had been burgled or simply misplaced. As I contemplated how to ask the staff without accusing them of thievery, my maid came in with a message from Holmes that presented a mystery of its own: _Haunted scientist, being followed by dove. Come to Baker St. Quickly. -SH. _I found myself at Baker Street presently, hoping to ask Holmes to return with me to recover my wife's gift after I found out what the devil he was on about.

"Excellent, Watson, you are right on time," Holmes said. "I have a Dr. Pennebaker coming, who insists he is being haunted by a white dove in the wake of having sold his research to the government. I do hope you'll join me, for I believe the case will be of some interest to you."

"Yes, of course," I agreed.

"And as for your own problem," Holmes continued. "The necklace was discovered by your wife when she was packing for her trip, and she hid it back in the drawer next to the one you had hidden it in, most likely because she heard you coming back into the room. I assure you it is quite safe."

In all our years of association, Holmes continually surprised me with the accuracy of his claims, and indeed I rarely reacted to them anymore, but this time I was flabbergasted.

"How-"

"You were quite clearly agitated when you entered, though you were trying to suppress it. You've been fidgeting with your pockets since you sat, and rubbing at your wallet. Naturally I thought perhaps it could be a financial matter, especially having seen you similarly out of sorts over your debts. However, this is the first I've seen of this in recent weeks, so I discarded the idea you'd gambled more than you intended. Your practice is thriving, as I can see in the medication stains on your hands, so we need not look there. the holidays approach, and given your recent career boom, it follows you may have gotten Mary a more expensive gift. She rarely wears bracelets and rings, only her wedding band, so therefore, a necklace. Mary has clearly just left for a visit, as she never allows you to leave the house with your sleeves rolled as so, meaning she must've been packing in the chest of drawers you share. It seems likely you'd hide your valuables in your drawer, wanting to keep it close but out of sight, and if the necklace was not in your usual spot, it follows you'd worry it'd been stolen, but I'm quite sure Mary caught sight, couldn't resist peeking, and had to hide it quickly back. Did I miss any points?"

"No, Holmes, as ever, you are quite right," I laughed. "I hope your final conclusion is as well; I did not have time to begin a thorough search before your note."

"A simple problem," Holmes said. "I do hope Dr. Pennebaker's story is less mundane."


	10. Blackmail

**10\. From PowerOfPens: Someone tries to blackmail Holmes.**

Mycroft Holmes, though equally brilliant if not more so than his brother, disliked legwork, and preferred a life of quiet contemplation in a firm chair with a glass of brandy and a sweet treat within reach. And so when he received a report of the madness of Lord Azur, a visiting Spanish dignitary, after an encounter on the street with a veiled woman, he wrote a note to his brother with a brief sketch of the case, and sent it along with the page.

Sherlock failed to reply, and another day of handwringing went on at the embassy, and Mycroft's solitude was continually interrupted. And so he sent another letter his brother, which he ignored still.

In the third letter, he simply wrote, _I will tell the doctor you once believed in Santa._

* * *

At Baker Street, Holmes read the letter and sighed. It was a juvenile taunt, but given that Watson and Holmes argued nearly every year about whether to dress up as Santa for the Irregulars, (Watson always arguing for innocence and Christmas spirit, and Holmes for logic and convenience), it was one Holmes did not wish to entertain.

"Watson," he said. "My brother has convinced me a case requires my merits. Have you heard of Lord Azur and his sudden illness?"

"Indeed I have," Watson said. "The paper report he is struck with a terrible illness that threatens to overtake his entire visit."

"That it does," Holmes said. "However, the papers have been fed a lie about his health and the trouble of changing climes on the body, when Lord Azur is currently suffering an affliction of the mind, seemingly caused by the path of a woman."

"Sounds interesting," Watson said. "Shall I get my coat?"

"Yes, we should be off to the embassy," Holmes said. As Watson turned to go, he sighed to himself and tried to think of a way to inconvenience Mycroft this season. Perhaps he would force him to come to Baker Street for Christmas supper, and if he tried not to go, he would have Watson extend the invite and forced Mycroft to accept out of politeness. Somewhat assuaged, he rose to search for his overcoat.


	11. Jack Frost

**11\. From WinterWinks: Encounter with Jack Frost. **

During the years Holmes was away, my wife and I began, as many couples do a few years into marriage, to consider children. My wife, often thoughtful and mellow, did not speak much directly about it, but began to point out to me infants being pushed in prams in the park, and began clearing out the spare bedroom where we had piled things we had no better place for. We began to plan to become parents with little fanfare.

Months passed, and then a year or two. Mary and I would be joyous to discover her cycle had stopped, and then she would suffer a miscarriage that demoralized her spirit and left her prone in bed. Mary carried within herself a hope that never flickered out, but I had a harder time remaining optimistic we were meant to have a family.

"Roads worth walking are often rocky," Mary would say, continuing to knit another baby costume. She had created near a dozen in a variety of hues.

One night, my wife left me working by the fire, giving me a kiss and telling me to come to bed soon. I fell asleep in my chair, and awoke from the cold, as the fire had died down. I yawned, and looked to the window overlooking the garden and the street, and there I spotted a boy.

The boy had the spritely look of youth, with shaggy hair, pointed ears, and an upturned nose. His skin seemed to glow faintly blue, and he wore a tunic that must've been freezing. His fingertip was outstretched to the window, and as he touched it, patterns of fern-like frost crept over the panes. His eyes met mine, and he smiled impishly. His mouth did not move, but it seemed to me I heard him say, _Hello, John. I'm Jack. _He pinched his fingers, and my nose felt instantly chilled.

I moved to the pane, and gestured to open it, and he shook his head. _Too warm. _

He pointed to Mary's knitting. I shook my head, realizing he wanted to see the baby I could not produce, and he frowned. _I see. _

He straightened up, gave a small wave, and suddenly, with a gust of wind I felt even through the window, he dissolved into a burst of snow. I felt fairly certain I was awake, and I hadn't dreamed the whole thing, but I realized, vaguely, that I'd never known Jack Frost to be true. I went to bed, where Mary pulled me close to her and nuzzled.

I never saw Jack around the window again, even when I waited for him. But it was only a few days after his visit Mary became pregnant again, and this time, she carried the boy to term.

"Why Jack?" she asked after I suggested the name. "Have you ever known a Jack?"

"One," I said. "He was quite the fellow."

**(this was sappy, sorry)**


	12. The Road Not Taken

**11\. From sirensbane: The road not taken. **

Irene Adler was both resolutely practical and a dreamer, a contradiction she rarely shared with anyone. Wilhelm saw a little of both, though far less than he supposed he did.

In the afterglow of their dalliances, Irene sometimes allowed herself to imagine a world where Wilhelm could make her his bride. Where she was not self-made, unmoneyed, common, theatrical, and overall unsuitable. Should Wilhelm's mother know of the days they spent together, the ways she bewitched the King, the poor old bird would die on the spot. She imagined the jewels she might wear, worn first by a line of powerful monarchs who came before, the silks she would have made into dresses, the balls she would arrange, the throne at her beloved's side.

Irene did not suffer to pay her bills before her acquaintance with royalty. She had her powerful voice and her lovely face, and together they suited all her financial needs. Men often fell before her, easy enough to influence. Men, in Irene's opinion, were often far more convinced of their sexual and mental process than they ought be, and therefore, she rarely had to do more than offer validation. Indeed, the King wanted little more than adventure and sympathy, and she gave it freely. She loved him- indeed, she did, even as she saw his flaws- but she was perceptive, and she knew the King's love was not hers to receive, even if he felt he could give it.

"What a fine queen you would be, my treasure," he said, stroking her hair as she removed the pearl hairpins he had given her as a present.

She smiled at him. "Indeed," she said, knowing that the path of royalty was one she would never take. Warsaw was but a land of dreams, and London would be the world as it truly was.


	13. December weddings

** 13\. From mrspencil: a December wedding**

Holmes, Inspector Bradstreet, and I had just completed a merry chase round London to recapture a prize parrot before it could be shipped out of the country. Holmes was not fond of birds, and I confess I also felt a bit nervous around the large, scarlet creature, but Bradstreet seemed quite captivated by its beauty and it sat perched comfortably on his arm until we transferred it back to the custody of its wealthy, unorthodox owner, a French woman who spoke English perfectly well but rarely deigned to do so (fortunately, Holmes' French was excellent, and mine passable). "_Merci beaucoup_," she said to Holmes, and then to me, reaching for the bird, who shuffled from Bradstreet's arm and then hers in a second. She gazed at Bradstreet, who smiled, and declared, "Thank you," in a thick accent. She shuffled off, parrot on her shoulder, and we all watched them disappear, a strange sight into the night.

"Well, I suppose that's that," I said. "Holmes and I will be off then, Inspector, for dinner. I hope you have a restful night planned."

"Something of the sort," Bradstreet said. "I say, I wish my wife had gotten to see that bird. What an anniversary present it would've been."

"Oh, congratulations," I said warmly. "How many years?"

"Eight yesterday. A December wedding can be quite nice, you know. With the snow and the candlelight and a nice stony church, it's almost spiritual. I would've liked to have taken our honeymoon out of the country, but we couldn't afford it then." He looked at his watch. "It's too late tonight- or perhaps I should say too early today- but later I believe I shall take my family to the zoo."

**Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing! I'll reply to you all individually soon, but it makes my day to read your reviews and also read everyone's fabulous work! This one took an unexpected turn for even me, haha. **


	14. Charade

**14\. From Hades Lord of the Dead: "I'll play along with the charade." **

Lestrade was never quite sure where he stood with Sherlock Holmes. Certainly, he respected the man, and sometimes quite strongly wanted to hit him, but he was invaluable as a colleague and sometimes seemed to even be a friend. Lestrade didn't waste his time trying to understand Holmes, merely accepting he was the way he was for unfathomable reasons. Holmes was often curt and even rude, but he had softened some of late; Lestrade found Watson an incredibly decent sort on his own merits, but what wonders he had worked on Holmes were incredible.

To his surprise, Watson came to his office a few days before Christmas with a small wrapped package. "How can I help you, Doctor?"

"I come bearing gifts," Watson said cheerfully. "The scotch is from me; the monograph on finger-print techniques is from Holmes, though I believe I was supposed to say both were from me."

"Thank you," Lestrade exclaimed. "I'm terribly sorry, I haven't got a thing for either of you. Can I at least offer you some of your own scotch?"

Watson chuckled. "Why, thank you, Inspector. I'd love some."

Lestrade poured them both a glass. "Cheers to Sherlock Holmes," he said. They clinked glasses. "I'm surprised Holmes thought of me for a gift."

Watson's eyes twinkled. "He claims a colleague sent a copy, and he's already read it and didn't need another copy. I assure you, you have his respect, which is not easy to earn. Personally, I think he's more comfortable being myth than man, and would prefer you or anyone else not know he's human."

Lestrade snorted. "I'll play along with his charade if he prefers. Still, I should like to send something round Baker Street. Will tobacco do?"

"Perfectly, I would think."


	15. christmas tree

**15\. From W. Y. Traveller: Holmes and Watson happen upon a Christmas tree.**

When Wiggins arrived for his report on a crime gang Holmes was tracking, he hesitated after receiving his shilling.

"Do you require anything else, Wiggins?" Watson inquired.

"Can I have some tinsel and popcorn?" he burst out. "Decorating, ya know."

Holmes smiled. "I don't see why not. Your information is enormously helpful. Here is the tinsel- ask Mrs. Hudson for the popcorn and thread on your way out."

"I believe she's baking pumpkin bread as well," I added.

Over the next week or so, nearly every Irregular that reported either asked for baubles or had some on their persons they'd purchased with their wages. "I daresay they've found a common decor target," Holmes said. "I wonder if we shall have occasion to see it sometime."

Holmes' words proved prophetic. Little Tommy came to our door the day before Christmas, as clean and presentable as a little street urchin could be, and invited us with great dignity to the "Baker Street Irregulars Christmas Extravaganza," complete with a smudged handwritten invitation.

"Allow us to get our coats," I said. Tommy waited, then led us into the park, off the path a bit. We trudged through the snow and came upon a mass of our Irregulars, shined and clean enough, around a fir tree they had clearly decorated themselves. It was messy and lovely, strung with tinsel and bows and candles and a baubles and popcorn, concentrated on the lower branches that they could more easily reach.

Wiggins stepped up. "Thank ya for coming," he said gravely. "Many of us don't have a Christmas tree at home, an' some don't have no family, so we decided to decorate a tree for everyone. We didn't have a ton of money, but we got ya both somethin'." He nodded at Jack and Alfie, and they presented us with two pipe-shaped blobs wrapped hastily in newspaper and twine.

"Whittled 'em myself," Wiggins said. "There's an engraving on the bottom of each."

_To Dr. W- from BSIs. _

_To Mr. Holmes- from BSIs. _

"Thank you kindly, boys," Holmes said, laying a hand on Wiggins' shoulder. Their little faces glowed with pride.

"Do you like the tree?" Tommy asked, clearly bursting with pride.

"It's far lovelier than ours," I replied.

"One last thing," Wiggins said. "Alright, boys, attention." They lined up neatly, and launched into an angelic, only slightly off-key chorus of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman." My heart softened with pride and care for our little urchins, and beside me I knew Holmes was feeling the same. We clapped heartily for them as they finished, and took a bow.

"Come, Irregulars," Holmes said. "Mrs. Hudson will have a warm meal ready at Baker Street. Eat, be merry, and then those of you who have family to tend to, go home for the holiday. The rest can stay with us tonight."

They skipped off ahead of us, cheering. "Dear Watson, do we have oranges and candy canes from 'Father Christmas?'" he murmured to me. I hid my glee, as Holmes and I often differed on this point. "I think I can find some to give."

"Ah, good. They are bright boys, are they not, Watson? I think, given the chance, they will go far in the world."

"I couldn't agree more," I said, taking his arm. "They are a blessing to us as we are to them."


	16. First Impressions

**And to think we're halfway through the challenge! I'll try and stay on top of prompts now that I'm back caught up. **

**16\. From PowerOfPens: A character reflects on when they first met Holmes. **

Before the VR in bullet holes, the knife stuck to the mantle, the strange little urchins and criminal types and hysterical ladies in the parlor, the violin music at odd hours, the science experiments and small fires, Martha Hudson thought that Sherlock Holmes looked hungry.

Poor lad, she thought. He had the look of too little money.

"I can see it has been some years, but I am sorry for the loss of your husband."

She started. "Yes, it has been some time. Jim never returned from the sea."

"Ah, I thought he might've been a sea-faring man."

"How did you know?"

"It's merely a deduction, madame. Surely you must've once been married to have ownership of such a house as this, but there is no recent sign of a husband about- though the portrait of the ship and the captain's hat tucked in the corner suggested there once was. Since this sign of him was not hidden, I thought it more likely he had died than left under less honorable circumstances."

"Well, you're right," she said, quite amazed. "Let me show you the rooms."

He was quiet and serious as she showed him the space, and was polite in his refusal of a scone when they returned to her chambers. She was disappointed when he thanked her for the tour and stated he did not think he could afford the rooms.

"I might take on two lodgers, if the other were also as courteous as you."

"I'm afraid I don't know any others seeking lodging. Quite unfortunate."

She saw other potential tenants in the week before he came back with Dr. Watson, who she also found pleasant, but something held her back from accepting them into the rooms. Years later, she thought it might've been intuition. She had married an adventurer in her flighty youth, and she had missed it, and despite the headaches of being Sherlock Holmes' landlady, she did enjoy the brightness and escapades he brought into the flat.


	17. a train delay

**17\. From mrspencil: a snowstorm blocks a train journey. **

I would be forever grateful to Sherlock Holmes for recognizing some use underneath the grime and bravado of my street days and offering me work, connections, and friendship. I led the Baker Street Irregulars for sure years, until I became a man myself, and then, he quietly sponsored my admission into the police academy. Though he was rarely warm, often curt, and not quite paternal, he was the greatest mentor I could have asked for, and coupled with the kindness and practicality of Dr. Watson, I did not lack fatherly guidance despite the death of my father at a young age.

As a young constable, I was invited to bring my new wife to Christmas at Sussex Downs, where Holmes had retired and Dr. Watson had followed. I wrote Holmes and Watson on alternating weeks, but had not seen either in person is some years, as both had begun to find trips into London arduous and exhausting. It is a frightful thing to see your heroes age. Holmes sent the train tickets himself, and though I could've bought them myself, I was grateful for his continuing generosity.

The snow began shortly out of London, and I thought with a sinking feeling we would be turned around. My wife, sensing my anxiety, merely said, "Come, Thomas, we must be patient." Sure enough, the snow thickened, and the train stopped entirely. Worst still, our conductor came round to tell us we could neither go forward or back, and we would have to wait it out, or exit to find shelter in the village.

"And to think I can't even get a message to Mr. Holmes," I said to my wife, bitterly.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said gently. "You have spoken so highly of him, I'm sure he will understand."

"Wiggins, looking for a Wiggins," a voice called from the aisle. I moved forward and a young, bright-eyed page handed me a letter. To my astonishment, it was written in Holmes' own hand.

_Wiggins,_

_ I will be waiting for you and your lovely bride in the Havisham Inn in the village. Watson will meet you at the station. We have secured rooms for the night and will resume our journey tomorrow all together to Sussex Down._

_Best,_

_S. Holmes_

"Why, I don't know how," I cried, "but Mr. Holmes is waiting for us now, and Dr. Watson is awaiting us at the platform!"

Sure enough, after securing our luggage and arguing with the porter to let us out in the weather, we found Watson, gray but cheerful, waiting for us.

"Dr. Watson, I can't imagine how you and Holmes knew-"

"Elementary," he said, laughing. "I have been studying the weather closely, knowing England's temperamental ways, and told Holmes this afternoon I was quite sure a storm was brewing that would delay you. Holmes and I did some calculations of time and wind speed, and guessed you'd be delayed here. We traveled ourselves as quick as we could, and waited. Holmes has wine and food awaiting, so let us go enjoy it."

"Thank you," I said, clasping his hand. "I was distraught to think we'd miss Christmas Eve together."

"Oh, think nothing of it, dear Wiggins," he said. "We are delighted to have you, and very proud of the man you have developed into. As you must be as well," he said with a wink to my wife, who blushed. "Come now. The snow is piling, and the cab had be bribed with Holmes' deductive skills to go out in this to begin with."

He clasped his cane, which he used all the time now, and led the way confidently. Aged they were, but still, heroes nonetheless.


	18. Lonely violin

**18\. From Ennui Enigma: A Lonely Violin**

A Stradivarius violin is an artful thing. Three woods, hours of carving and shaping, the most delicate strings, varnishing and polishing lovingly. Their craft was beyond compare. Or so my companion told me one night after a series of melodies. I confess I knew little of the significance of such an instrument, and only realized then how it must have been passed down in Holmes' family as an heirloom.

Holmes was thoughtful that night, waxing near poetic, which was not his usual way, but perhaps that night he was grateful to own such an instrument that he could coax beauty and grace from to ease his troubled conscious. Even then, unknown to me, the web of Moriarty drew tighter around us, and my friend was beginning to know the way the struggle must end.

On nights when my grief was staggering, I often wished to hear that violin play again, and be once more in the almost carefree days before the falls and before the shadow of Moriarty fell upon Holmes. I even considered that the violin must still be safely in the rooms Mycroft kept at 221B, and I could go see it, though I could not play it myself. But I knew, all the same, without Holmes it was just a lonely violin.


	19. Werewolf

**19\. From V Tsuion: Werewolf**

Holmes' notes to summon me from my practice were often enigmatic. This one, however, was the most outlandish he had ever sent (a high distinction).

_Client convinced he's werewolf. Need medical input. Come quickly. -SH_

I hastened myself to Baker Street as soon as I could, where a Mr. Hansel Grotwein was pacing around Holmes, who sat serenely at his chair.

"Ah, good, Watson," Holmes said, clasping his hands together. "Mr. Grotwein, my colleague, Dr. Watson. Please tell him your tale exactly as you told it to me."

"Ah, I hope you can help me," he said in heavily accented German. "I have recently emigrated to England to consult on a government matter I am afraid I cannot give details for. Before that, I hailed from Bavaria, near the Black Forest. There are still tales of wolf-men in my village, men who disappear into the night, snarls at their old windows, and children and animals vanishing. Wives' tales, I had thought...even my own grandfather was supposedly one of this men who entered the forest and never returned...

"The last night in my old home, I heard a snuffling at my door. I approached, cautiously, with my gun, and I recall opening the door to a terrible pair of red eyes and the full moon, and then, I awoke back in my bed. My arm was coated in dried blood, and it seemed I had been bitten. But I could remember nothing, and when I cleaned the wound, it seemed superficial enough to delay a doctor until my arrival in England.

"An associate met me at the station, and we traveled together some time. The full moon rose again the first night we crossed into England. I recall a strange dreaminess coming upon me, and I saw my hands contort into claws...I recall little else, but when I came too again, it was morning, and I remained in the coach on the road outside my associate's abode, and he was gone, with only blood in his seat and around my mouth and hands to show where he might've gone. I fled to London, and have tried to merely do my work quietly.

"And every full moon since, I find myself this way, Doctor Watson. No matter what precautions I take, I awake and experience the strangest dream, and awake back the following morning with blood around my mouth and hands, my clothes tattered, and often, feathers or fur on the floor, like I have...fed. The last full moon, I found the bonnet of an infant child. Further still, I have noticed my skin paling, my hair thickening on my arms and face, and sensitivity to the sun. As though it is worsening, and I am becoming less man and more wolf each day."

I was quite astonished at this tale, and merely nodded. Holmes said, not unkindly, "Please return to your rooms tonight, sir. It is not a full moon tonight, and we will be visiting soon."

"And what do you think, Watson?" Holmes asked after our visitor left.

"Medically?" I answered. "A great deal comes to mind."

"I suspected as much," Holmes said. "Tell me, could the symptoms he mentioned be medically induced?"

"Pallor, sun sensitivity, hair growth, paranoia," I considered. "Yes, with a cocktail of drugs. From my brief examination, I might think our Mr. Grotwein suffering from Porphyria. It is genetic in nature, and somewhat rare, but more common in Germanic peoples. I have read that the disease can manifest when the patient is given certain drugs, including barbiturates, which might explain his dreamlike confusion before his supposed transformations. The hair growth would merely require certain vitamins. Neither would be difficult to acquire with the right connections."

"You have confirmed what I thought, Watson," Holmes said. "Someone is trying to make Mr. Grotwein believe he has become a monster, and hope to drive him to insanity to learn the nature of his work. If I am right, he is here in a military capacity, and there is a spy in the ranks."

"So what do we do?"

"We must convince Mr. Grotwein to allow us to guard him the next full moon. There is a great deal of preparation and planning in this scheme. We will undoubtedly find our man at the ready to make Mr. Grotwein believe he has killed again. In this matter, Watson, I must request your service revolver. This is a clever man, and a dangerous one. We must be on our guard."

And so we found ourselves hidden in an alcove outside our client's room, which had been boarded up at his insistence. He seemed wary to have men so close to him.

"I have personally watched the preparation and delivery of all of Mr. Grotwein's food today," Holmes whispered. "He should not have received a dose of sedatives today. I hope he may rest while we solve the matter."

The wait was long; the moon rose high over head. Near nodding, I was startled when Holmes elbowed me. A figure was creeping towards the door of our client. He carried a sack, no doubt filled with bloody rags to trick our poor Mr. Grotwein, and began to pick the lock with a wire. Holmes motioned me forward, and I, gun drawn, crept along with him. His eyes darted up, and he saw us, and dropped his sack and began to run. Holmes and I pursued, separating to cut him off from either end of the hall, and I skidded around the corner to find Holmes cornering him.

"This has gone far enough," Holmes said, sternly. "My associate has excellent aim and will not hesitate. You will accompany us to Baker Street, and Scotland Yard will collect you shortly, Mr. Wilson. Treason, espionage, and attempted murder, I dare say- I suggest you cooperate, as you have already hurt yourself greatly."

And so Lionel Wilson, turncoat, was dealt with by the Queen's government, and Hansel Grotwein finished his work under my careful observation and treatment, and then returned home. He remained somewhat convinced in the supernatural, but was greatly relieved to learn he had harmed no one under the light of the full moon. Wilson could nary say the same.


	20. Chimney Sweeps

**20\. From W. Y. Traveller: Wiggins takes a job as a chimney sweep. **

Wiggins was accustomed to holding a variety of odd jobs and hustles, especially during the Yuletide, when money was scarcer than ever. He'd mostly cut out pickpocketing, on a promise to Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes (with an addendum it was a fall-back,) but in addition to Irregular work, he often helped out a tobacco shop, running deliveries, and sometimes swept up at a ladies' tea room owned by a soft-hearted woman with no children of her own, earning pennies from ladies who tweaked his cheeks and called him "just adorable."

This season, he'd picked up some work chimney sweeping. Bert had recommended it, said it was awful fun to climb in chimneys and no one cared if you were dirty, though he also said it could give you quite the cough. Wiggins had his sister make a mask for the work. And well, it was alright, sure. Bert sang an awful lot and sometimes it got grating, but there was nothing like climbing up in chimneys.

Well, it was nigh on Christmas when Wiggins was wedged in a chimney with his sweep, humming to himself, when his sweep dislodged a brick. He barely dodged, and cursed loudly, then exclaimed to himself as he realized he'd unearthed the corner of a locked chest and what looked frighteningly like a the bones of a human hand. He scampered out of the chimney quick as a flash, and called to Bert, "I'm off- I gotta fetch Mr. Holmes!"

**I couldn't resist putting a Mary Poppins reference in here...**


	21. Letters

**21\. From mrspencil: a letter brings back memories. **

When I relocated from Montague Street, I was faced with the reality of the number of papers I had hoarded since my university days. Many I carefully packed away to reorganize in my new study, as they poised practical importance to me and my burgeoning work, but others I considered longer whether I ought to keep them.

I had never been an avid letter writer, far more likely to misplace letters or simply forget to ever reply to them, but my brother had dutifully written me weekly during my time at university, perceiving with some truth I would isolate myself and dive more thoroughly into the pursuit of knowledge than relationships with my peers. The vast majority of these letters were brief, polite, and informative about the goings on within the family, as Mycroft had often acted as the go-between between myself and our surviving family. They rarely contained much sentiment, as we both preferred. I burned them accordingly, in reverse order. Presently, I found myself with the very first of the letters.

_Brother mine, _it read.

_I will keep my sentiments brief, but congratulations on your admission into such a fine institute. I trust you will expand your mind and seek truth, as a young man of your age and station rightly ought. I am proud of you, and I trust mother and father would be as well. The sale of the estate is going well; I trust it will be finalized shortly, and I will send a cheque to the university to pay your tuition in full until you graduate. My work continues to be absorbing. I see some points within it you might yourself be suited for. Consider it, as you work towards what undoubtedly will be a bright future. _

_Yours,_

_Mycroft Holmes _

I am nary a believer in fate, but it felt momentous to discover these words as I prepared to leave behind the last of my doubts and youthful ways and advance my consulting to a full-time, unique profession. I would never dare tell my brother it, but I stashed his letter among my papers and have kept it all this time. I uncovered it again as I left 221B the final time, and laughed the laughter of an old man, who has lived to see his full potential and accepted that others will one day eclipse him. Age is the greatest teacher, I can attest. Little has taught me more than the sheer passage of time, the way it swirls and repeats and meanders in patterns predicable and uncontrollable. My papers stay in my attic, mostly unused these days, but awaiting a time when another may find them helpful. The world turns, and boys become men and men become elders. And letters yellow and curl and disintegrate, lost to time itself.


	22. Offense

**22\. From sirensbane: "Why Lestrade, I didn't know you cared!"**

Inspector Lestrade did not consider himself a vain man, per se. Certainly, he did not believe his outer appearance was repulsive, nor did he consider himself uncommonly handsome, and further still, his heart and brain were all the more important than his looks. Still, he was but a mortal man, and it rankled to read his description by Dr. Watson in that rag he published. In a rare point of agreement, he and Holmes both felt the story a trifle overdone, though perhaps for different reasons.

He was admittedly a bit cool to Watson after the publication, and Holmes, damn him, noticed it, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement. Watson, more attuned to matters of the heart than the inevitable body language Holmes must've interpreted, adopted an extra pleasant and reverential tone, asking questions about cases with attention and making notes of Lestrade's answers.

After a case's conclusion a fortnight after the pamphlet was published, Watson walked Lestrade down the seventeen steps and said, sincerely, "Inspector, I hope I have not done something to offend you, and if so, I should like to beg your pardon. I respect your work and you as an officer, and I hope I have not conveyed any other messages."

Lestrade felt his lips twitch. How petty he had been. Truly, this was a decent man, a friend. "Tell you true, Doctor, it's foolish, but I've been petulant you called me rat-faced in your story."

Watson flushed. "I am deeply sorry, I ought've thought. Why Lestrade, I didn't know you cared in the least! Truly, I didn't think you'd have interest in reading it, but still, it was unflattering and unkind. Please accept my apologies. I was so concerned about what Holmes might think of it I confess I neglected to worry about anyone else."

"Oh, it's all right," Lestrade said.

"Do you think I ought to make amends with Gregson? I recall I may not have been charitable to him as well."

"Oh, heavens no," Lestrade snorted. "The man's thick enough I doubt he even could read it."

"I think I shall anyway," Watson said, suppressing laughter.


	23. Christmas Carol

**23\. From Book girl fan: A Baker Street Christmas Carol**

The winter of 1893 saw me in the blackest depression I had ever experienced. Holmes had tumbled over the falls two years prior, and my wife had followed in the summer of 1893. My wife and I had tried to begin a family of our own, but none of her pregnancies had come to the fifth, we began to hope, as she progressed normally into the second trimester. Then one morning she awoke to blood, and we knew we had lost the child, who we had been tentatively calling Little John. Mary grew quiet, sad, and pale, and little could cheer her. She slipped away in spirit first and then in so I found myself utterly alone, drinking more than was healthy, on Christmas Eve, having sent the maid home in the day, I had been visited by Lestrade, who had tried to persuade me to join him and his family for Christmas dinner, but I am ashamed to say I sent him away quite rudely, and ignored carolers where I would have once joined in, and even denied alms to gentlemen collecting. Never I had felt Christmas less in my soul.

I must've fallen asleep, and awoke with startle as my clock struck midnight. I felt a chill like I never felt go through me as I realized there was a ghostly smoke drifting from the chair across from me.

"Hello?" I whispered.

"Hello, old boy," my friend's voice answered, and my blood ran cold.

"H-Holmes?"

He leaned froward, and there was my friend, and yet, it was not. He shimmered and disappeared in turn, seeming solid one moment and nearly invisible in another.

"Yes, my friend, and no."

"Why are you here? _How _are you here?"

"I am your subconscience, I believe. But perhaps I am more than that, if you prefer to think that. And I am here, my friend, because you need me to be."

"I've missed you," I said, my voice thick with tears.

Holmes smiled, sadly. "I know. I can see your grief, and it saddens me to see the loss of the spirit you once carried for the season. But there is something you must know. I am the first apparition you will see tonight. Three more will follow. There is still life to be lived, old friend."

"Apparitions?"

"You'll see. I must go now, Watson. The next will be along shortly."

"Holmes, wait-" I stretched out a hand to him, but he was gone, smoke and all.I sat in shock, for how long I couldn't determine. My eyes fluttered at last, and I awoke again to the crackle of the fire, restored by someone other than myself.

"There you are, brother," said my brother Hamish, glowing faintly like the fire, smiling, and looking healthier than I recalled him looking even for years before his death.

"Hamish!" I exclaimed. "Is it you, truly?"

"Aye, it is. Brother, I am sorry," He said, gently touching my arm, though I couldn't feel the touch itself. "I treated you badly at end of life, and I regret it."

"I forgive you, brother," I said, tears welling. "I have missed you all these years."

"I am here to remind you of the Christmas pasts we shared as children," he said. My sitting room melted away, and I found myself standing in the snow outside my childhood home. I saw myself and Hamish, children, playing in the snow, taking turns on the sled. Our laughter carried on the wind. The bull dogs were cavorting around us, barking. I looked to the house, and saw my parents, watching us through the window with smiles.

"We had good Christmases, didn't we?" Hamish said with a smile.

"Indeed, that's where I began to love it."

The scenery changed—I saw every Christmas over winter holidays in flashes of love and warmth—and then the Christmases in Afghanistan, in unbearable heat, and color. I saw myself, singing carols with my men.

"You found Christmas even here," Hamish said.

"Yes, I did," I said slowly, thinking about how it had been easier then than now.

And then I was at 221B, sliding Holmes a disguise kit for a gift, and his face was nearly smiling. My first Christmas at 221B. The tree was small but bright. Holmes had protested.

And then I was back in my sitting room, but it was a different time—Mary was straightening stockings, in a lovely red dress, so beautiful, so lovely with life. I saw myself, alight with love, come to her with a ball and mistletoe, and we kissed.

"Merry Christmas, darling," she said.

"Please, Hamish," I whispered. "Let's go."

We returned to my own sitting room, now dark and cold. My tears felt cold on my face.

"Brother," Hamish said. "My time draws near, but remember- life ebbs and flows. Once you were as alone as you are now, and it changed for the better. You are the same man. You will find joy again."

"Please, don't go," I begged, but he faded as quick as Holmes did.I staggered to my chair, closed my eyes, opened them again, and Mycroft Holmes was standing at the hearth, serious as ever.

"Dr. Watson," he said. "I trust you understand that I am here, but I am also in my rooms in Whitehall. More likely, I am a hallucination, but hopefully a productive one."

"Indeed," I said, perplexed.

"Anyway, let us continue. Oh, and yes- Merry Christmas."

"I- yes, Merry Christmas," I said, and then we were standing in Lestrade's home. Gregson, MacPherson, Hopkins, and the like, and their wives, and Lestrade and his wife, and all their children, were crowded around a table heaped with pudding, goose, and potatoes. The buzz was genial and cheery, and the tree shone with candles. Twine packages were wrapped beneath.

"I do wish Dr. Watson would've come," Mrs. Lestrade said.

Lestrade sighed, heavily. "I know, my dear. I worry he's spending the night alone. The loss of Mary was a blow more than any man should have to endure, especially one as decent as him."

She lay a hand on his shoulder. "We will pray for him."

And then I was in a warm little kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson and her sister were gabbing and preparing food. She looked out the window, and a shadow passed over her face, and then she was gone, and I was in the dark rooms of Mycroft's club, where he wrote a letter and sighed, alone. I looked at the spirit beside me, just as solid as the man at his desk, and he smiled cryptically.

Then we were back in my sitting room, and Mycroft was shrugging into a coat and holding his umbrella.

"Make what you will of these visions," he said. "The final apparition is nigh, Dr. Watson."

"Who will visit me next?" I tried to ask, but he was gone, just as quick as Hamish and Holmes.

The last embers of the fire flickered, and suddenly it was colder than ever. Upon me was a cloaked man, and as I drew closer to him, despite my fear, I saw it was the same Moriarty who Holmes had grappled over the falls.

"You!" I shouted, smiled grimly.

"You are my third apparition?"

He nodded.

"Will you not speak to me? You who have taken so much?"

He pointed to his mouth, and as I looked upon him, he started to decay. His skin fell away, and his eyes, so cruel, shriveled, and his hands became claws, until all I saw before me was a skeleton, and around his feet, chains that dragged.

"This is your fate, then," I said. He nodded. "Show me what you must," I said.

We dissolved into a morgue, and I feared I knew the body beneath. The mortician spoke to a young assistant, "Ach, a good man, he was. Too young. He never was right after his grief. He never recovered."

"How sad," the man said. "And who found him?"

"An Inspector Lestrade. He never stopped trying."

"I heard tell," the assistant dropped his voice. "That he gambled away all his savings and his house is being taken by the debtors."

"True, sad to say. A Mycroft Holmes is paying for the service."

And then we were at the graveyard, and I saw it, my tombstone, year of death obscured, Mary's grave next to mine, flowers at them both…still, though I had been distant and cruel, my friends remembered me…

The ghost of Moriarty pointed to the grave, and stared at me through empty eye sockets. His bones began to collapse and then he was a pile of clothes and bones, but his chains sank into the earth, downward.

I stumbled in fear, and found myself back in my chair. It was midnight, Christmas Eve. I hadn't missed it! I resolved to send a note round to Lestrade I'd join for dinner. I would write Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft,and wish them well. I'd buy gifts for the Irregulars. I would recover. I would not be the sad, lonely man in a grave, blind to the joys of life. I had suffered, but the tides would turn.

**Merry belated Christmas!**


	24. Christmas Candles

**24\. From Ennui Enigma: Christmas Candles**

Holmes rarely even endured festive frippery, much less initiated it, so I was shocked to come home to him cheerfully lighting Christmas candles on the tree.

"Merry Christmas," he said. "Mrs. Hudson has requested I light the candles."

"Well, they look lovely," I said, somewhat bewildered.

"I have agreed on the condition I can melt the candle stubs for use to make hand and foot molds."

"Ah, there it is," I chuckled. "Well, I can't say I mind. Will you find such molds useful?"

"Immeasurably!" he exclaimed. "Why, Alistair of Glasgow would've certainly been hung for his crimes if the police had been able to prove his finger prints were the ones in the melted candle wax on the candlestick he used to kill his victims."

I had to smile; only Holmes could make festive decorations applicable to murder.


	25. Ladies

**25\. From ThatSassyCaptain: [Free Space] Write the prompt of your dreams, the one you wished you'd gotten but haven't yet **

**The choices were overwhelming, but I finally chose...the women of John Watson's life.**

"Oh, aren't you just darling," Charlotte Watson cooed. Her newest lad was swaddled warmly and asleep, freshly nursed. He was smaller than Hamish, but would knit for him, bake for him, fuss at him, love him more than life itself, and infuse him with a love for gentle women and Scotland before she left the earth.

* * *

It is a remarkable thing, love. And she was a remarkable woman. She played jokes on him. She read and edited his stories with gentle suggestions. She told stories marvelously herself. She had once found a little tiger cub and tried to rear it herself, much to her father's horror. She had a kind spirit coupled with a remarkable mettle. She was the best of wives.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, the most patient soul in London, loved her tenants like her own children. And they loved her like their own mother. Sometimes, John would pass the evening in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, swapping stories of Scotland, from where they both hailed, and chuckling over Holmes' latest eccentricity.

* * *

Violet turned his head in 1901. She was a widow herself, comely and quiet. She devoured novels of all levels of prestige- foolish little novels sold on the street and periodicals and long classic novels. She was less of a homemaker, but John Watson was accustomed to unusual living conditions. She helped him find wild joy again, and that proved to be what he needed.


	26. Rivalry

**27\. From W. Y. Traveller: Rivalry **

Gregory Lestrade and Tobias Gregson joined the force at roughly the same time as young detectives. They were of similar age and the brightest of their class, and so they drew inevitable comparisons. Lestrade couldn't recall who later, and neither could Gregson, but some smart aleck in their division suggested they start tallying up their successful arrests and make a bet of it. They started in their second year on the force. The stakes were initially quite low. The loser would treat the other to lunch. Lestrade won that year; Gregson won the following. The tradition continued into their promotions as Inspectors, childish as it was. As the year raced to a close, secondary bets would spring up at Scotland Yard for who would class.

The rivalry was foolish, but it spurred them on. A young detective always longs to prove himself. By the time Gregson retired (he was first, struck with arthritis), neither was entirely sure who had won the most years. Both swore it was them, and both refuted the other. It was a game, truly, by then, sheer force of habit. But neither man would ever admit as much.


	27. Arrested

**27\. From V Tsuion: Holmes gets arrested. **

Alright, Davey," Holmes said patiently. "Let's make sure you understand the assignment."

"Okay!" Davey agreed, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. Davey was a new recruit; Wiggins was rapidly growing up, and he was generously helping build up a new Baker Street Irregular force as he and his friends started looking toward being grown-ups instead of professional street rats.

"So you'll be looking for any suspicious figures asking the docks men for nighttime transport. Stay quiet, unseen, and get word to me as quick as you can."

"Then wha' happens?"

"Well, Dr. Watson and I will go await the man, and surprise him before he can hide the gems in the cargo holds."

"And you'll get him?"

"That's our intent."

"And then you'll arrest him?"

"Well, we'll leave that to the police."

"I'd like to arrest someone," Davey said earnestly.

"Perhaps you may, someday."

Davey got a mischevious look on his face. "Mister 'Olmes, you're under arrest," he declared, miming placing Holmes in handcuffs.

Holmes' cracked the smallest grin. "You've got me. What am I under arrest for?"

"Erm, stealing. You stole from the Queen. I gotta take you in."

"The Queen, my. I am quite a cutthroat. Carry on. May I suggest jail be the kitchen, where we can persuade the inestimable Mrs. Hudson to provide some tea?"


	28. Cold hands

**28\. From cjnwriter: "Agh! Your hands are so cold!"**

My courtship with Dr. Watson began in September, after he and Mr. Holmes so kindly helped me resolve the matter of the Agra treasure. I was instantly smitten, and so it seemed was he. We passed many evenings in our parlors, talking earnestly and planning, but more often we took long strolls through London streets and the park. John seemed to know London so well, better than myself, which he assured me came from traversing the city with Mr. Holmes on their adventures.

Our strolls were curtailed a bit in duration as the weather turned cold. Finally, the well-meaning Mrs. Forester fussed enough we put them on hold until spring. "Agh, your hands are so cold!" she'd say, pressing them between hers. I'd merely smile and assure her I felt perfectly warm class. How could I not with the love of such a wonderful man?

**(Been on a real Mary kick this year, idk)**


	29. Neighbors

**29\. From sirensbane: A neighbour's perspective **

Edward Littel's mother much disliked living next to 221 Baker Street. She liked the landlady just fine- they even had tea, sometimes- but she had fits about her tenants.

"Ugh, the smell from those windows!"

"Oh, Pierre, did you just hear _gunshots?" _

"The characters coming in and out of there, truly. I wonder what on earth they're up to."

"Oh goodness, look at those little street Arabs running in like they own the place!"

"Violin this time of night?!"

"Don't they know we have a little boy? The nerve."

For his part, Eddie loved living next to 221. Dr. Watson was like to give you a candy if he had one, Mr. Holmes was always dashing off somewhere interesting and was fun to watch, and he didn't mind the noise and smells. It was certainly more interesting than the neighbors on the other side, who were old and grumpy, and more interesting than the arithmetic and reading and printing his mother taught them. He liked to play jacks and marbles with the boys that hung around 221 and listen to their stories. Mr. Holmes hired them to help with their cases. He thought they might sometimes be exaggerating (they seemed to tackle a lot of criminals), but goodness, if they didn't get to have more fun! Eddie had tried to sneak off with them, but his mother always seemed to call at the wrong time. One day, he vowed, he'd go inside and learn more. But he might have to wait until he was a grown-up so he could tell his mother that he was big and could make his own decisions. A boy could dream.


	30. Riddles

**30\. From Ennui Enigma: Inspector Lestrade's riddle.**

"What is in my pocket?"

Watson blinked. "That's not much of a riddle, Lestrade."

"Did we say riddle? I thought we said puzzle. I think that's a fine puzzle."

"Well, I don't know it's fair."

"No, Watson, I said I could solve any riddle. Let me try. It cannot be large, as your pocket isn't bulging. Nor it is alive, as your pocket isn't moving. I doubt it is your wallet or house key, as these as too straightforward. It is a receipt for your lunch, I wager."

Lestrade grinned. "Alright, alright. You win. For the record though, my wallet and keys are in my pocket, so you failed to get it all, technically."

"So neither wins," Watson concluded. "We'll call it a draw."

**(Couldn't resist a Hobbit reference.)**


	31. Dawn

**31\. From Domina Temporis: Dawn (I did WWI just for you!) **

I was delayed leaving France, as my work necessitated that I tend to the wounded and send them home before I myself could return. I was quite happy to continue serving, even if it meant missing Christmas, but an order from higher up had me return home with just enough time to make it. I suspected Mycroft may have pulled some strings, just as suspected he had a role in certain movements and placements that had fortuitously protected me during my service.

And so I returned to London in 1918, happily reuniting with nearly-grown Irregulars, Billy, our page, and Mrs. Hudson, frailer now but just as witty, and nearly all of Scotland Yard. Holmes traveled in for the occasion, and after the festivities ended, I joined him in Sussex Downs with the understanding I could stay as long as I wished.

I had some difficulty sleeping now, having grown accustomed to the sounds of men all around and warfare outside my medic tent. My bed felt too comfortable, the country air too clean and quiet. And so I rose, and sat on the porch, watching England's lovely stars twinkle. I watched the sky lighten, the colors glorious and bright, and as the sun rose, Holmes joined me.

"You could not sleep."

"No."

We sat quietly, the comfortable weight of our age and years of friendship between us.

"It is a new dawn," I said.

"Indeed it is, Watson. I think the coming years will be unique, and challenging for the world."

"But better, I hope."

"Yes." He gazed at the horizon. "Yes, we can hope."

**And that wraps the challenge! This is definitely my first time finishing on 12/31 in a couple years. I've so enjoyed reading your replies, and every review is much appreciated! Happy New Year all!**


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